Regard
by Pleonasms
Summary: Canada has put a lot of effort into keeping the France that was the center of his childhood and the nation he sees now separate in his mind. He is too aware of France's flaws, and the old memories are too precious to risk.


A/N: Here goes the first real attempt at writing fanfiction I've made since I was... thirteen? This is for Nebuneferu for the Valentalia request exchange, and I am _so sorry_ for making her wait.

Endless thanks go to my beta reader, LePetitPappillon. You were fantastic.

* * *

Regard

The first time in Canada's adult life that France said he loved him, he was on his knees.

They were surrounded by racket of the celebration of a long-awaited victory. It sounded very much like every other party after a few hours, a few arguments, and a few empty bottles; a blur of human voices, laughing and shouting, loud enough for shriller voices to bleed through the walls. Someone was pounding something jaunty and irritating out of a piano. A woman was singing. Whatever she was attempting was slow, and she must have thought it very important, because her voice kept cracking and going off-key in an attempt at some very powerful emotion. The two musicians didn't seem to have anything to do with one another, and despite a few a few slurred commands from foreign privates to "shuddap", neither seemed intent on backing down.

America's cackle boomed out above it all. He spent most of the night in the middle of the small knot of his men, an island of English. Most of the revellers were French - the Free French Forces, the Resistance. Or whatever they were called now that there was nothing at home to resist.

Of course, France had been among them, the man of the hour. Canada had watched him for most of the night from the corner he'd been lurking in. It had made him feel a little creepy was well as hideously awkward, but he hadn't been trying to hide it, and he hadn't been ogling. He'd just been concerned.

It had not been that long since he'd seen him, but France was paler, thinner. Breaking off communication taken Canada longer than anyone else. France had been metaphorically gagged for years by that point, when he'd finally admitted that what little the nation said couldn't be trusted, that there was no point in talking, and it had almost killed him.

Yes, he was definitely paler. Thinner too, but most of them were. The skin under his eyes was bruised, his fashionable stubble grown a little too long. The more Canada had watched him, though, the less those things had seemed to matter. He'd been _laughing –_ laughing and smirking and mocking America with a comfortingly familiar limp wrist.

That had made Canada smile, alone in his corner. He'd needed to see that, to see France whole.

Still, he could shake or ignore a distinct feeling of discomfort. This was something he'd been fighting for, as an Ally and one of the nations backing the FFF, but it hadn't been his battle. He had shipped out alone for this, a special mission called 'family time' – but without the security of a handful of citizens, the avatar was painfully drawn to the battles he was still fighting.

His body knew where he needed to be, and it was an awfully long way from Paris.

That was what he'd told his boss, though it hadn't sounded as strong or as pretty when he blurted it out. A few of the words might have gotten mixed around, too. But Canada had said it; that, and that it wouldn't matter, anyways, because with so much going on, the chance that his shaky congratulations would even be heard was slim to nil. He'd expected to settle back into the role of foot-shuffling spectator for the whole evening, and for most of it, that was exactly what had happened.

Until France had brought them to this. Canada had been pulled out in his corner, relieved of a precious glass of wine that, in better times, would have earned a disdainful sniff and a condemnation as 'piss', and shuffled into an adjacent room with an unusually thin smile.

The study of whoever had found themselves hosting the event was dark, full of the dry smell of old books and disuse; they were alone. Coats, some still crusted with battlefield dirt, were slung across the desk, but the room contained no symbols or insignia but the ones pinned there.

Before Canada could stutter out a polite inquiry, France had relinquished his arm and refastened around his neck.

Together, they'd sunk to the floor.

If he hadn't gotten just a little drunk, lurking in his corner, the younger nation would have been terrified. The alarm-muting buzz of alcohol was enough that Canada didn't choke on his own tongue over the fact that someone had actually singled him out and was _touching him_; the first flare of panic didn't come until he realized that he had no idea where to put his hands. The next came as he scrambled through his limited range of experience, and stumbled across the thought that if living with England had taught him anything, it was this: when a man resorted to hugging, something was very, very wrong.

He mulled that over. Nothing was very, very wrong with him. He wasn't in pain, besides the low, inescapable pang of bloody front-lines, and he wasn't in danger – France's hands were locked safely into the fabric of his shirt, high on his back.

All the more evidence to the fact that, despite all prior evaluation, something must have been very, very wrong with France.

His body was a dead weight on Canada's shoulders, slack and solid, shivering in a way that was barely perceptible, even with so much contact. Beneath the soft, flowery scent of undoubtedly black market soap lay the smell of nervous sweat.

Canada shouldn't have been so surprised. If he hadn't been just a little drunk, he would have known that, would have made the conceptual link between the party and the collapse. The Frighting French Forces and every nation willing to back them hadn't been struggling to reclaim a territory or correct a border. 'Rump' or not, Vichy had been the French government. There was a thin line between a liberation and a revolution, and even drunk, any one of their kind should have remembered the consequences.

The chances that Francis Bonnefoy would be affected in the long run were slim. A nation's personality came from their people, and it was stunning how unaffected the masses usually turned out to be by changes in administration. A new institution was already waiting to take its place, had been fighting for the chance since France was put into Vichy's hands. De Gaulle wasn't at the party; he was waiting in the wings.

France was not in danger. Even Canada, young and inexperienced, was old enough to know it.

But it felt _vile._

As a revolution played itself out, as conflicting factions flip-flopped, or worse, dissolved into something undefined, it manifested as something disturbing and disorienting. France was vulnerable, and didn't have the sense of mind to know that it was familiar.

He would be fine, but for a few long moments, he clung to his former colony like an anchor, sealing him to – Canada thought – the fragment of himself left in the New World centuries before.

Of course, that occurred to Canada much later. At the time, his foggy brain was running through open coasts and strategically significant cites, wondering if France was suffering from some new, unseen wound.

"Francis..."

Canada realized that his hands were fluttering, and he lay them flat, unsure whether to pat or rub or just smooth the sweat-damp cloth on the man's back. France made a low, rumbling sound of acknowledgement, and the exhale gushed hot through the fabric of his uniform.

"Um... are you –"

"_Français_."

"Oh..." Canada swallowed. He asked, "_Tu es malade?_", and cringed because it came out too wide, and France didn't like his accents. He did his best to rein himself into something more purring, more Parisian. "Um..._ Tu es blessé_?"

_Are you ill? Are you hurt?_

"Nnn... _non,_ _non_. "

As France turned his face, stubble scratched audibly against Canada's shoulder, and tucking his face into the crook of the boy's neck, his breath poured over his collar to roll across bare skin.

"_J'ai été_ _libéré._"

_I've been freed_.

That was more air than sound, but the shape of France's lips almost curled it into a sneer. Canada could hear it, feel it, because those lips had come in to full contact with his neck. It muffled his words, and it tickled.

"_Ca va aller_."

_I'll be fine._

That was sincere.

France's mouth was left relaxed, lips parted, when he finished speaking. It wasn't a kiss.

Neither knew how long they sat before France's fingers unlocked. His arms slid down the boy's shoulders, and he rocked back onto his heels, shaking untrimmed hair back over his shoulders and giving Canada's elbow a squeeze.

"_Désolé_.", he said, and pressed his mouth to the side of Canada's chin. That was a kiss. "_Et merci; Je __t'aime, tu sais._"

_Sorry. And thank you. You know I love you. _

He was already climbing to his feet. When he offered a hand, Canada took it.

They rejoined the party. France flit and flirted through the crowd, beaming and grateful to his children and saviours, tremor gone and forgotten. Canada affixed himself to America's shadow, and over the course of the evening, got embarrassingly, vomitously, blissfully drunk.

No one seemed to notice.

* * *

It wasn't a turning point in there relationship.

That was something that Canada took a solid few years to decide – that as weird and intimate as the scene had been, it wasn't consequential. It couldn't be, because as far as he could tell, he'd been pushed to his rightful place in the background by the next day, and pushed the memory back in response.

It would have been harder, but thanks to a long record of familial neglect, Canada had gotten an awful lot of practice. He thought of his hodge-podge philosophy of intellectualization and suppression as the Mature Stance. Austria would have wept at the term, but Freud be damned, it had worked so far.

The technique was based in no small part on the nation's experiences with England. As part of his instruction in rigid British morality, Canada had been told about the importance of being unobtrusive, because good behaviour meant more if one didn't expect attention in return for devotion. He may have taken the "seen, and not heard" ideal a little farther than it was meant to go, but it didn't become clear that that was a problem until many years later. Every scrap of attention and distant expression of approval meant the world in the child' mind, but dealing with the lack of it almost turned into a game. Patience was a virtue, and forgiveness equated to loyalty – for accepting England's disinterest, Canada prided himself in being a good colony.

That's one way to endure a mutant lifespan of frustration – by using decades of alone time justify your own spinelessness.

It took about a week to convince himself that, despite the feverish filter of alcohol, the incident was absolutely real. It took a full year to connect the dots, and figure out that France wasn't likely to emote upon him again in the foreseeable future.

So... his role in France's meltdown hadn't been the start of some magical, personal bond. That was alright. The man had needed something external to tie him back to himself, something unequivocally French, and Canada had been the best thing around.

And it wasn't as though France had never touched him before. When they'd first met, the empire had coddled his new territory like a kitten every visit, always holding him; petting him. While the memories had softened with age and neglect, he could still feel sharp stubble following a trail of kisses across his cheeks, down the wind-chilled curve of his nose... always accompanied by a coo of "_Je t'aime, mon chou_", given so freely.

Yeah, it had taken a solid half-century after England had let him detach from his political pant-leg to separate those memories from the winks and pinches that, as a grown-up dominion, Canada had apparently become eligible for. He'd been Mature about it, kept the two relationships far and apart – because France was physical, and France was affectionate, but he spread it in all directions and it couldn't _mean_ anything. And because if he let that bother him, if he resented it, it could embitter the memory of the most attention he'd gotten in his life – first from his long-lost big brother, and then from the only man alive with a leer powerful enough to penetrate his apparent invisibility.

The Incident (as the years passed, he felt himself capitalizing it) complicated that a bit. Canada had put a lot of effort into keeping separate the France that had been the warm centre of his childhood and the France that had thoughtfully tried to wrestle him into lap when he'd shown up late for a meeting and found himself without a chair. The relationships had each been boxed into a rigid frame of reference, and any room for tenderness had been left behind at the Plains of Abraham.

But if it hadn't been a shared moment, if he'd been a prop... he could work with that.

Happy to help.

Yeah, that was alright.

* * *

As it turned out, it wasn't alright.

Canada pinched a sliver of nail between his teeth and ripped it off to the side. He was down to the bed, and his nibbling was exposing skin it shouldn't have, but that didn't stop him. Alternating between abused fingertips, he tried to sooth the sting with strokes of his tongue, pausing to systematically clip the each ragged crescent in his mouth into tiny, even bits.

His rear was cold and numb from sitting for so long on the closed toilet lid. A film of long-dried sweat left him feeling grimy, and that was far less disconcerting than the half-crusted smears that were effectively gluing his clothes to his stomach and groin.

When he'd ducked into the bathroom – after crawling awkwardly in the dark for a few items of clothing – he'd intended to clean himself up, but had quailed at the thought of disturbing Francis. Instead, he wound up sitting in the fashionably harsh light of France's fashionably sleek steel light fixtures, biting his nails and watching his toes burrow into the (presumably fashionable) shag toilet mat.

His head had been resting on his fist for so long that if he pulled away, there would probably be a pink impression of his fingers left under his chin.

There wasn't a clock in sight.

The steady stream of self-abuse Canada had been treating himself to had long since tapered off into a sick feeling in his stomach and the back of his throat. In the worst of it, he'd just asked himself over and over if he was actually that stupid, that desperate for contact. France was physical and France was affectionate and it _didn't mean anything_. He knew that, knew that it wasn't worth spoiling old memories to take advantage of being a novelty, and novelty was the only thing that was prompting France to give him the time of day. Novelty was the only thing causing the recent, sporadic bursts of attention he'd received – that was why France would only speak to them in the language they shared, and even then, tease him for his accent; why every invitationwas to some landmark in Francophone territory. And it wasn't subtle; when France finally resorted to proposing a date in Canada's house, confused by the younger nations stubborn, if stammering, resistance, it was to the _Chateau Frontenac._

It wasn't fair, and it wasn't kind. It felt like the bleary morning after the party in Paris, _sans_ hangover. It felt like 1968. It felt like the only thing that would ever make him worth spending time with was some image that he didn't entirely fit, and never could.

There was nothing on Earth that France would ever adore quite as much as himself, and Canada was brutally aware of the fact it wasn't worth breaking his carefully built barriers to cater to someone else's vanity. Yet somehow – not at the Frontenac, not on the Seine, not on any of the romantic locations the older nation had tried to persuade him to see, but in France's home within his House with almost no preamble – that resolve had been stripped away alongside cashmere and cotton and polyester.

All things considered, it was resolved that yes, he obviously was that desperate, and the constructive thing to do would be to take that as a given and move onto more complicated self-depreciation – and the awkwardness that he would have to face when he literally and figuratively got off the pot.

Ass numb, fingers stinging, eyes glued to the blurry outline of toes nestled in white shag, Canada wondered what he was going to do in the morning. It would be simple enough to make up some excuse, duck out at the crack of dawn; that would be rude, but less painful than a dozen imagined alternatives. What was the protocol for this sort of thing? If he didn't run for at and – God forbid – overstayed his welcome, he might never work up the nerve to leave his continent again.

But, then... if America found out, Canada might never be _allowed_ to leave the continent again.

That got him speculating on who France would tell, if he'd been memorable enough to at least earn a mention. Assuming that it fell on one of those days that "Ah, Arthur! You'll never guess which one of your lovely boys I finally got a crack at..." could actually get Canada a glimmer of recognition, this could be prime anecdotal England-bait.

He wondered if that would be added to England's lists of "Slights by the Wine Bastard", or if it would hit on a more personal level. He wondered if Arthur would be disappointed.

More than anything, though, he wondered how he was going to make himself get back into bed. In Canada's racing mind, there was no doubt that running that tap would wake France. Crawling back to bed unclean had the same risk of discovery, and without even the benefit of an excuse for his absence.

In the end, he never did make the choice. He didn't realize that he'd fallen asleep until a knock on the door brought him back with a jerk. In an instant, Canada was on his feet, trying to rub the still-wet sleep out of his eyes with half-numb hands, shocked and appalled by the pale glow that was unmistakably city sunlight spilling in through one high window.

That knock came again, and Canada responded with a slightly uneven "Yeah?"

"_Ca va? Ca fait un moment que tu es là dedans._"

_Are you alright? You've been in there for a long time._

"_Ouai_. I'm... I feel a little weird. Sorry. I'm fine."

"_Tu étais parti quand je me suis réveillé._"

_You were gone when I woke up._

It would have been better if that had come with some sort of affected disappointment, to turn it into an invitation, but France's statement actually sounded mildly concerned. The sick feeling in Canada's stomach blossomed into an entirely too pleasant rush of warmth.

It was that rush of warmth that had gotten him into this mess.

A finger had somehow made its way back into Canada's mouth. Even with the free nail gone, there was plenty of cuticle left to gnaw at, and he went at it with relish, praying that France would take the hint to leave. Around that, he mumbled, "Sorry."

"Mm." Floorboards creaked as France hummed in acknowledgement. "It's just that... I woke up quite a long time ago. May I come in?"

It wasn't like he could refuse. Each step across the bathroom floor stretched out like the whole world was filtered through a fish-eye lens – like a cartoon dream sequence – but Canada managed to open the door.

Apparently, he had been up for a while; France was fully dressed, and Canada doubted that it was for the sake of modesty. With the door open, he could smell coffee and the lingering scent of something sweet being cooked.

That made sense. France was probably well-acquainted with the dangers of cooking naked.

The even through a hint of myopic blur, France's greeting smile was more welcoming than it had any right to be. One corner slid higher than the other, and Canada could sense more than see a corny, flattering joke welling up as France's eyes raked over him, head to toe and back. That 'back' brought something unexpected under scrutiny. France's attitude shifted, and while the smile stayed in place, his brow creased as he said, "You slept here."

"I – no, no I didn't." Canada sputtered.

"No? You've got... ah..." France trailed off, waving at his chin.

Canada was sure that a drool check had been included in the disoriented scramble that followed the first knock. Sure enough, frantic fingers found nothing but skin hot with a mortified flush, but a glance at the wall-mounted mirror revealed damning sign; even through that blush, a hand print was clearly visible on each side of his face. He'd fallen asleep sitting up with his head cradled in his hands.

When France followed the gesture, it wasn't expected. Thin fingers raised to graze along his cheekbone, smoothed over his forehead, and Canada had to check himself from stumbling backwards. The older nation advanced with a frown, head canted, critical.

"You are warm. And..." He tilted Canada's face up, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. "... your eyes are glassy. Why don't you go back to bed?"

A shake of Canada's head served to express his denial and brush off the other nation's hold.

"Don't be a hero, _mon ange_. Your boss's people will find you another flight, I'm sure."

Canada started, addressing his toes, "I should just –", and France was having none of it.

"Flying is hell enough when you aren't ill."

"I don't want –"

"It's no trouble." He emphasized the point by slipping an arm around Canada's waist, even brushing his lips against the corner of the boy's mouth. "If you've got something economic, I'm sure your brother will pass it around all ways soon enough. Anything more earthly... Well. I'm sure you communicated it more than thoroughly enough last night." He chuckled, "Either way, I'm doomed."

When Canada failed to respond, he squeezed gently, swaying him suggestively in the direction of the door. "I'm not busy", France said. "And besides, this was a duty that never did fall to me when you were small." He leaned in, turned to blow his words against the younger nation's frantically bobbing Adam's apple, and sensation and memory raised goosebumps down Canada's arms.

"Let Big Brother take care of you, hmm?"

"_No._", Canada gasped. The unfortunate choice of words had caused a fresh spike of agitation, triggered a cringe away from the man's wicked mouth. France let him pull away to arm's length, probably on the off chance that he was about to be sick, but seemed determined to keep in contact, with his hand on Canada's hip.

"Are you – why are you being so stubborn?" France asked. "There's no need to be embarrassed."

"Sorry."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the _remarkable _ability to make an apology come out as 'for the love of Christ, leave me alone'?"

Canada bit back a '_then why won't you?' _and swallowed. This his fault, for breaking his own rules – he didn't want to offend his host, make him responsible for his discomfort, but once again France's belated attention was making it so much harder...

Another 'sorry' – horribly timed, but it was the only word Canada's tongue was willing to form.

France sighed. "Yes, well... I'm not going to _demand_ that you spend the day. But, ah..." he shook his head, set up a rueful little smile, and continued, "I was hoping that you would. It was astoundingly difficult, getting you here."

"... Sorry."

"I'm sure you are."

There was a pause, and Canada was forced to stop staring intently into a fluorescent bulb to find out exactly what that meant. In that light, Francis looked paler. Barricaded from his bathroom, he'd had no choice but to let that morning's stubble grow a little more than fashionably long. There were no bruises under his eyes – thank heaven for small mercies.

Having caught the look, France seemed almost relieved, "I don't think I'm quite myself today, _mon cœur._" He shifted his weight, crossed one arm to rest on his hip. "I should apologize, but... you look very off-put, and I don't know what I've done to offend you."

Canada shook his head, protested, "You haven't done anything."

"I know. I think that is why I am so nervous."

"I don't..." He didn't know why was meant by that, or how to ask. But France was already moving on.

"Why did you come to my bed last night, Mattieu?"

"You – you invited me?"

"I did. Many times. Why did you come last night?"

"Why do you care?" A more obvious avoidance tactic there's never been, but it wasn't countered.

After a long moment of consideration, France began. "I really did not expect you to resist the first time I approached you with... romantic intentions. You'd always been shy, embarrassed by that sort of attention, but I expected you to be flattered after the initial shock to your acquired 'sensibilities'. You... were not.

"It occurred to me that you might have matured more than I'd ever noticed, and I started to think that you were being coy. I didn't mind that – if you wanted to be pursued, I was more than eager to catch you. But it became overwhelmingly evident that you weren't interested in playing games with me.

"I tried to compromise, but I realized that I don't really know anything you like. Nothing I know of in your home enticed you, and I... ah... didn't know who to ask. When I approached you at the summit, I'd come full-circle in my efforts. I'm not easily daunted, but you genuinely seemed to want nothing to do with me." He cleared his throat. "Then you agreed to come home with me. I'm not complaining, certainly not, but accepting the fact that you really do look disturbed more than ill, it seems that you..."

He cleared his throat again, and Canada' gaze was back on the lightbulb. When France resumed, his voice was low and careful. "You seem to have just spent the night in the toilet rather than in bed with me. _Mon amour_, that's not the reaction I'm used to.

"I suspect that you must not like me very much. I have for... a little while. Not long enough. I can't help but picture the way you would look up at me as a child – you _worshipped_ me with you eyes, Mattieu – and wonder when, exactly, my neglect killed your love for me."

Canada closed his eyes when he heard France shift, kept them closed as fingers pressed against his upper arm, lightly, lighter than Francis ever touched.

"If that sweet boy just tolerated me for a few hours for the sake of a convenient lay... oh, _Mattieu, _that's so ironic I could cry."

That was a joke, if not a very good one. His voice was smooth, his eyes clear, his smile bitter.

Unwilling to endure the sight of the disappointment he'd inspired, Canada rocked out of reach, and bee-lined for the door.

The slacks and undershirt he hadn't found in the dark were waiting in the neat stack that at the foot of the bed. They probably weren't washed, but then, France _had_ been up for a while. He took his glasses from the top, tucked them into his shirt pocket, and set the pile on the floor.

He slithered beneath the duvet and closed his eyes.

There was a pause, then the mattress dipped, and France was on him, against his back. Arms wrapped around his middle. Hands were on his skin, and they were still. The mouth on his neck was closed.

He felt a wet, hot gush of breath, rolling from France's core all over his skin. He let himself enjoy it. He became boneless.

The other nation's mouth turned up in a gleeful grin – because he never just _gained_ anything, he _won_ it – and Canada was turned onto his back. There were kisses trailing across his cheeks, down his nose, lingering on his lips. Chaste.

France was purring "_Je t'aime_" so earnestly, so freely.

In French, Canada confessed "I love you too", because despite everything, that was true.

It wasn't alright, but he would sort it out later.


End file.
